


senecio

by efi_me_ros



Category: Cats (1998), Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats - T. S. Eliot
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Feels, Found Family, Gen, Growing Old, Not Beta Read, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:14:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27349471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efi_me_ros/pseuds/efi_me_ros
Summary: The delight left him breathless in its wake. And he will be robbed of it, soon enough. Just as it will take his breath away, as well.
Kudos: 12





	senecio

**Author's Note:**

> i have a math test tomorrow and my dumb ass decided to write my first fanfic in 4 years. had birthday depression for some reason and i felt terrible throughout october so this is a vent fic in a way, except my friends made me a fancam (as we do) and the song behind it was skimbleshanks, so this has been in my mind for the past week.
> 
> this wasn’t beta read because i impulsively posted this the night before an exam and all my friends are studying. i make bad choices.
> 
> english isnt my native tongue so im sorry if there are any mistakes please. assume they are intentional.

The railway in winter. Even as the brisk cold air whistled errantly in the night, the room was warm with fresh coal. Silence, only the steady rhythm of pacing wheels. 

Skimbleshanks was curled in a corner of the room, tail languid in resting over his hinds. The engine was as warm as a hearth, and to him, it was no quandary with fretting about, whether he was sleeping on the crude den back in the Junkyard or the hard floors of the Guardsman. 

A meager sound resonated in his ears’ periphery, woke him from his light slumber. Light pitter-patters on the metal ground. _A rat for sure,_ he thought, head raised alert. Skimble’s eyes scanned the dimly-lit room for any sign of vermin. 

He pounced, but the rat had run half a pace away from where he landed. The tabby dashed towards where it dipped, illuminated by light from the corridor. Another pounce, and again, to no avail. The rat sped out to the corridor further to the locomotive’s front.

_At least it’s not off to the sleeping cars._

Skimble sighed, dissatisfied with this result, and went back towards the corner he previously slept in. Though sleep refused to come now that he’s been up and about, there’d be no harm in staying comfortable. If he’d counted right, the Midnight Mail would arrive in London within half an hour.

Even from the miniscule workout, Skimble felt kneading fatigue on his legs. A stiffness that hadn’t been there before. And that’s how it’s been, lately, bare exertions that would normally have him warmed up for more now has him heaving with light sweat matting his short pelt. Skimble weighed grooming to pass the time, yet found himself blue at the thought—but _why?_

Just four hours prior, he’d been a bit late, as usual, though the conductors were more than willing to delay the train by a few minutes. However, the worry started to set in Skimble’s mind; what with his less-than-graceful tumble from the luggage van to the laboured running towards the passenger cars. The uncharacteristic buckle of his knees when he leaped from the platform. There’d been a couple too many times like those. He’d been pushing the thought back, yet it seems keen to resurface and ebb away the security of his mind. 

A particular jolt in the train’s path shook him from his previous stance, garnering him a lost footing and his back meeting the warmed wall. The clarity came from a jingle—his bell, usually torpid, now further down his chest looser than before. With no particular thought, he came to fiddle upon the leather strap. Pulling. The breadth of a paw fit between the collar and his neck.

Now—Skimble knew what his older age entails, despite not being as grey as Gus, or Grizabella from the last ball, or their very own Old Deuteronomy. Yet he does worry; if his time came before his ascent was chosen, what happens then?

The Jellicle Choice, the Jellicle Choice. Seemed like a distant dream; some countdown of revelry after each, waiting for the next year. The Jellicles—a family. The tight embrace of familiar scents and voices after weeks on the road. 

And he does—he does yearn. Yearns that sort of affection in his every day, without a mind addled with stress. But it’s there, just half a dozen blocks away from Euston, always ready to welcome him with open arms. It’s this, _this_ that exacerbates the deep pit in his stomach, this ugly loneliness, this wanting for something he already has. 

He will one day leave the train, and leave the railway for good. To live in the Junkyard until his end.

There was a pang of hurt in that realisation, something Skimble didn’t want to dwell on longer. To no longer be able to feel the hum of the engine, or the speeding wheels beneath his feet, or the warmth of the coal engine in snowy winter nights, or the bustling sounds of Gallowgate. No more watching as the passengers trickle away eagerly from the car, or incidents with drunk men bumping all over the corridors. No more watching as the bagmen laughed their hushed excitement over a game of cards, or rounds over the front and back with the guards. Things that Skimble had thought were mundane now seem like an adventure again, like the days many years ago when he’d first boarded.

The delight left him breathless in its wake. And he will be robbed of it, soon enough. Just as it will take his breath away, as well.

Skimble rouses, perhaps to calm his mind again, and happens upon the jolly old driver reading some little book. A little call, and he was happy to provide company for the blithe man. He’d scratched his tabby coat, and he’d settle there for the moment, he decided. Yet his stagnant thoughts wander, again, for some cause that has anxiety pooling like a weight shackling his paws, trickling his fur like a slick mat of oil.

If he were gone, what would become of the Midnight Mail?

As much as he’d like to think of chaos springing whenever he’s not there (for Everlasting’s sake, _they must find him or the train can’t start!_ ), he knows it’s merely a song. Though it is his Song, it is still in its core a Song to present to the crowd, something for performance, for sing and dance—for a Cat to beg for another life. This sort of hyperbolic caricature was the norm for a Jellicle’s offering song; so the crowd immersed themselves in this paracosm where he’s _the law of the railroad_. 

But, yes, the train goes. The train will go, no matter if he’s on or not.

Just as the world will go with or without him.

The Jellicles would celebrate his ascension, singing a hymn, the Song of the Jellicles, salute the Everlasting Cat. And they’ll wait for him to return anew ( _if he ever does,_ he scoffs) as another Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat. A newer, younger version of himself. And the men of the train would perhaps notice his passing, leave a few moments later than usual. Waiting for him to come, and likely assume the worst. Or perhaps dignify the thought that the ginger tabby had grown bored of that life.

The Jellicles, or the Midnight Mail. The safety of family, or the thrill of the road. Skimble only ever hoped, if he were to be reborn, he’d be wise enough to choose one ever the other, so he could get rid of this dull dread eating him up. He’s sick of this, fucking tired of despairing over the things he can’t change.

He wondered, for a moment—if they’d found his body limp in the middle of the road, would they even care?

The driver gazed to the watch in his coat, and paced towards the front. Skimble understood; they were nearing the station. He could faintly hear the cacophony of steps, from staff and passengers alike, ready to get out upon touching down the platform. 

When it does, Skimble stopped short of leaping down for once in his life.

The man embracing his wife and two daughters, greeting him eagerly from the trip. A father jogging slightly to his returning son who’d only stepped off seconds ago. Two fellows in a tight hug with tears welling in their eyes. Love in a place Skimble had elected to leave in haste every day.

And those famed glass-green eyes glistened under the watch of the Jellicle moon.

  
Because that, too, is what he has. A family welcoming him with open arms, even as his legs grow weak and his shoulders grow weary. Even when the stars dim, and the sun turns cold, and the Jellicle Moon fades from the night.

Because even if the passage of time flows steadfast as it is, they would be right beside him. He’ll watch, as more and more of those astray find happiness in the least likely of places. Those who have no hearth to curl upon in the winter, to find solace and joy in their family. 

And even if one day, he’ll board the train for the last time, Skimbleshanks will still have his home.

And for now, that’s all that matters. 

  
  
  



End file.
